to account; history is human
hurt from any injustice and from any experience which persists despite

the rhetoric (oh, you weren’t
reaching for the shelves, were you!);

responding to Paris by
bombing Syria was on the table there-it-was

a rhetorical knee-jerk
blind to any history

hoping for crowd-approval
like the echoes of a playground brawl;

politics should be sharp and uncomfortable,
include all difference

include whatever white elephants are in the room;
spade (sic) politicians who

will not respond to the white elephant
who will not respond to the history

are left with only the puff of rhetoric
braying like farmyard animals, looking

ridiculous; air strikes in Syria are ridiculous

there were a number of terrorist attacks in Paris during January 2015; there was debate in the UK about launching an attack on Syria as a response; the Labour leader, Jeremy Corbin, was courting views on the response – I wrote a poem

the crane holds effortlessly over from behind
the houses and trees cables thrumming always
cold and eventually it will all be dismantled;

the diesel car purred slowly downhill, a pigeon
dropped down behind it walked around a bit;
through the leaf-clean branches of the young

tree the Edwardian cornices and tops along
Plumstead Common Road, don’t collect thoughts,
t a s t e them without notice, deep and wet

with no tice – much less effort – while walking,
every once in a while the wall steps up a brick
I search for being clear again … step, while

walking stop, and breathe the beauty, stop
and smile a little thought for you; in St. Mary
Magdalene’s ground the mother has turned

points to the trees, birds fly off and land, the
toddler steps and stands among the pigeons
while the mother brings the abandoned scooter

but then in New Road holding the handshake
shaking between exchange the firm friends
look at each other only occasionally; while he

he Had a coffee heated sandwich iced bun
crisps water £8.89, busses passing bulbous
over the dark green and hanging shade; up

the hill on the coldstreet stepping downhill
out the newsagent the bright blue padded
jacket and the single bounce of a well-inflated

basketball with simultaneous echo inside; the
while on a wall opposite his Mum’s flat dead
almost 12 years now watching a boy with a limp

and the 53 bus working between parked cars
and the crossing island with air suspension
and when it was quiet the dark coat and white

trainers crossed the road paused and into the
newsagents but then I didn’t see where she
went; the constant echo of boys’ voices playing

football on Plumstead Common off Acacia
Terrace 1890; and I can’t see 46 Eglinton Hill
where I’m sat, conifers grow so quick, but

`doesn’t matter, I can’t see the blackbird singing
a different collect each time either; crows on the
chimneys of 40/38; for a minute the blackbird

stopped no vehicles uphill downhill, lights
went on across the river and each house had
the face of lifetimes in their windows;

Every year and a while I travel 40 miles up to Woolwich, where I grew up, to check that the journey I make started off in the write direction (HA!); while wandering I write, leaning on peoples’ front walls and making a coffee last in a cafe (and every once in a while I treat myself to an afternoon bench); walking downhill from Plumstead to Woolwich and around and back, in time; those who know Woolwich and Plumstead (all none of you across the world wide, as far as I can tell, although you have got Google maps, if you’re really interested) will [be able to] recognise as they appear: South Circular coming up to Well Hall roundabout, Eglinton Hill [childhood home], Plumstead Common Road, St Mary Magdelene’s Church, Woolwich New Road, [along A206], Waverley Crescent (top of Griffin Road), Plumstead Common (proper), back up Eglinton Hill …

so much
unless there were overrule and overlay
can not respond to forming ad hoc
my silent mind circuitry
gathering echoes that both clipped
demands like and split
in a vacuous world that through junction
to make the play and relay
choice is bypassed massed in
so thick over time that cable over lead
clumped

there was a thirty year cacophony
storied and canyon
full of echo and window
and impossible superheroes
but the giant fin e – ven – tu – all – y
passed gliding out of freeze-framethe quiet whale drifting off
like a community

there is nothing left
the after-currents, the dwindling tendency
the receding cheers the gears the home-lights
receding bobs
no ground to
stand from
su – spend – ead

but too
no need to hold my breath anymore
no need to stay submerged down here
let this leaden air out
to rise where
it will
I will take in all water
behind my ears
and reach anywhere
through power
of silent speech

written sitting in the Cathedral in Granada – no speaking please; the second line right-angles the “I AM WHO I AM” given to Moses from the Burning Bush when Moses asked ‘who shall I say sent me?’ … unqualified existence, self-am-ing existence, made cathedral; also posted the morning when Donald Trump was elected President …

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… Mark; remember …

"... the impulse to keep to yourself what you have learned is not only shameful; it is destructive. Anything you do not give freely and abundantly becomes lost to you. You open your safe to find ashes.
~ Annie Dillard